AN EARLY CHRISTMAS CARD TO YOU
I'm looking at you, star, deep space's cinnamon mint.
Thanks for the mountain of you,
that ray glamorous at the tippy-top.
How many Russian Keanus did you have last night anyway?
You had better enter poetry science soon or die.
YOUR FUTURE
I see a strange wedding with certain globby Brice Marden branches in graphite.
Maybe that's the second bathroom's silvery wallpaper.
The one where you will keep the Neruda.
Birds insist a condo.
Over and over.
SHUFFLING DOUCHE COLOGNE
Just whisper to the back of the sky when it happens.
Starlings have this endless street mantra
they do in the sky while watching
people wave at dead people from their privileged aerial view.
That movie they keep running on IFC you say tests our struts.
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